


Šūdas, How Long Does it Take to Make Tamales?

by Husaria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cooking, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Husaria/pseuds/Husaria
Summary: Nobody told him it took six hours to make them.Written for Day 1: Cooking for APH Rare Pair Week 2018.





	Šūdas, How Long Does it Take to Make Tamales?

Lithuania knew as much about Mexico as Mexico knew about him, which is to say, nothing. He knew that she bordered America, rarely had snowfall in winter, and had spicy food. 

He looked at the address Mexico had given him and back at the unassuming white restaurant front. 

He stepped inside. The interior of the restaurant was filled with elegant chair and white tablecloths. A bar was on the side. 

A waiter asked him something in Spanish, and he blinked. 

“Table for one, sir?” 

“Ah no, I think a friend of mine made a reservation.” 

“What name?” 

“Maria Juarez Hidalgo.” 

The waiter looked at something on the tablet. “Of course.” 

“Your other half is already here,” the waiter said. “Follow me.” 

Lithuania blushed. 

The waiter brought him to a table in the back of the restaurant. 

“Here you are, sir,” said the waiter. 

“Oh, hello, Toris,” said Mexico, standing up. 

This was the first time that Lithuania had seen Mexico outside of United Nations meetings. She had brown hair a few shades darker than his and wore a black dress patterned with flowers. 

“Maria,” he said, shaking her hand. “It’s nice to see you.” 

“How have you been enjoying Mexico?” she asked. “Alfred told me you were visiting Yucatan.” 

“It’s been a wonderful change,” Lithuania said truthfully. “I miss summer weather. December in Cancún is summer in Lithuania.” 

“Really?” Lithuania could see her contain a shiver. “I’m glad I can help you remember summer.” 

“And the food was spectacular.” 

Mexico smiled. “I haven’t come across a country who doesn’t like Mexican food. It must be a bit different than what you’re used to. 

“At any rate, I’m glad you’re enjoying Mexico. _Mi casa es tu casa._ ” 

“I…vaguely understood that.” 

“Make yourself at home.” 

“How do you take your mezcal?” asked the waiter. 

“My…what?” 

“Mezcal,” said Mexico. “It’s an alcoholic drink made out of agave.” 

Lithuania blinked. He had no idea what agave was either. 

“It’s like tequila.” 

“Oh! Ah, straight?” 

The waiter poured them two shots of mezcal and set a plate of peeled oranges on the table. 

“Do we drink them like shots?” 

“You can,” said Mexico. “But personally, I prefer to sip it and then eat a bit of the orange.” 

“Okay.” Lithuania took his glass. “One, two, three…” 

_“Salud.”_

__

_“Salud.”_

Lithuania drank the entire shot. 

Lithuania gasped. “That is…strong.” 

“It’s nice,” said Mexico. She laughed. “You didn’t mean to drink it all, did you?” 

Lithuania shoved an orange in his mouth. “I normally take shots of vodka.” 

Lithuania looked at the menu. He had eaten a few of these dishes back in Yucatan. 

“Tamales?” 

“Sorry?” 

Lithuania pointed at the line on the menu. “The dish. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of these before.” 

“You’ve never heard of tamales?” 

“Alfred may have mentioned them in passing, but I’ve never eaten them. What are they?” 

“They’re meat stuffed in a corn dough and cooked in a corn husk.” 

“Oh, would you recommend them?” 

“Personally, I don’t like buying them at restaurants,” said Mexico. “I’ll either buy them from stands or make them myself.” 

“If you have time tomorrow, I’d love to make some.” 

“You _really_ want to make tamales?” asked Mexico. 

“I’d like to,” said Lithuania. “They sound like very interesting.” 

“Really?” 

“Have you been to Puebla?” 

“No, but I’d like to have gone. Why?” 

“Ah, then I’m guessing you haven’t had mole.” 

“Mo…lay?” 

“It’s a sauce made out of chile, spices, chocolate—” 

“Did you say _chocolate_?” asked Lithuania. “I’d love to try it. What do you serve it with?” 

“Oh, here they serve it on top of enchiladas. Have you—” 

“I’ve had those!” Lithuania said. “Alfred used to make some frozen ones.” 

Mexico stared at him. “I think you need to eat these instead.” 

*** 

Thank God, Mexico had cleared her schedule the next day. 

Mexico woke up at seven the next morning and raced to buy the ingredients for the tamales. A large pork shoulder that needed to be broiled and shredded, corn husks for the wrapping, and poblano chiles for the sauce. She always had an unopened package of dried corn masa at home. 

First was the pork, which took the longest. She filled a pot full of pork broth, chiles, garlic, salt, and cumin, added the pork. Now she just had to let it simmer for three hours. 

And then she waited. 

The doorbell rang. Her Chihuahua ran to the front of the apartment, barking her head off. 

_“Diablita, ¡cállate!”_

Mexico stopped the mixer and opened the door, pushing Diabla out of the way with her foot. 

“Good afternoon, Maria,” said Lithuania. He held out a bouquet of red roses. 

“You’re so sweet. Did you find my apartment alright?” said Mexico. 

“I did. Oh, hello!” 

Diabla panted and jumped up on Lithuania’s leg, wagging her tail and whining. 

Mexico rolled her eyes. “Ignore her. She just craves—” 

Lithuania had already bent down to give her pets. “I normally don’t like little dogs, but she’s so sweet. Hello, there—What’s your name?” 

“Diabla.” 

“You named your dog after Satan?” Lithuania exclaimed in horror. 

“It’s a natural name for a Chihuahua. Come, let me show you the kitchen” said Mexico. 

A black, hairless dog with upright ears on the couch stretched his legs and yawned. 

“Wh-Is that a dog?” 

Bonito looked up at Lithuania and then plopped his head back on the couch. 

“Yes.” 

“He…has no fur.” 

“He’s a Xolo.” 

“A…xolo…?” 

“Xoloitzcuitli,” Mexico said proudly. “They’re my national dog.” 

“I’ve never seen one of these before. Hello,” Lithuania adopted the same dopey tone he had with Diabla. “You’re a very interesting dog, aren’t you?” He scratched behind the dog’s ears. Bonito groaned and squinted his eyes in pleasure. 

Mexico smiled softly. 

“Well, I’ve just started the masa,” said Mexico. 

“The…?” 

“The dough.” 

“I’d like to help,” said Lithuania. “Is there anything I can do?” 

“Hm.” Mexico looked at the packages of dried corn husks. “You can start by cleaning those.” 

“Do you have a…” 

“The strainer is in the drawer under the oven.” 

Lithuania got it out the drawer. 

“And when I’m done with that?” 

“It shouldn’t take you too long. You can shred the pork. I’m pretty sure it’s done. Just use any bowl on the counter for that. Keep some of the broth I’m going to need it for the masa.” 

“Here you go,” Lithuania said, putting down a mug filled with the pork stock. 

“Thank you.” She blended some of the stock into the 

“Done!” exclaimed Mexico. “Thank, _God_ , I can work on the sauce now. Masa can take _hours._ ” 

“Hours?” said Lithuania. “How long do these take to cook?” 

“I put the pork in at noon.” 

“Noon?” exclaimed Lithuania. “It’s _three-thirty_ right now. I had no idea how much work you had to put into this. If I would have known—” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Mexico waved away his words. “I’ve never had someone ask to make them before. Now for the chile…” 

Lithuania’s eyes watered. “What are you cooking?” 

Mexico looked at the dark red chile searing on the stove. “These are just poblano chiles.” 

“They’re so strong.” 

“Poblano are some of the gentlest chile!” she exclaimed. 

“My cuisine isn’t spicy! You saw me at the restaurant yesterday. I could have died.” 

“That wasn’t even hot!” Mexico pressed more of the blended chiles against the strainer, making the sauce as smooth as possible. “You’d die if I was filling these with habanero.” 

“I don’t want to know what that is.” 

Mexico kept herself from rolling her eyes, as she opened the kitchen window. 

“Thank you,” said Lithuania. He looked down at the bowl full of shredded pork. “How many tamales would this make?” 

“Around fifty.” 

Lithuania sputtered. “Did you say _fifty_?” 

“We’re not going through all this work to make _twenty_ ,” said Mexico. 

“What’re we going to do with all the rest?” 

“Freeze them, give them to the homeless, maybe I can ship some over to you in a cooler. I occasionally give some to America if I’m feeling generous.” 

Mexico took the bowl of shredded pork and poured the red chile sauce onto the meat, blending them with her hands. 

“Phew, finally.” Mexico wiped the sweat off her forehead. “Now we can start filling them.” 

“Oh yes,” said Lithuania. “How can we do that?” 

“I’ll make one as an example. You take a cornhusk, fill it with the masa like this—” Mexico took a spoonful of the dough and spread it against the corn husk. “—and then you fill it with meat.” She took a spoonful of meat and spread a dollop of it on the dough. “And you fold the husks like so, and we’re done.” 

Lithuania nodded. “I can help you with that.” 

“Join me,” she said. 

Lithuania stood next to her and started preparing his own tamal. “I did one!” he exclaimed. 

Mexico looked over his shoulder. “That is going to be a very tiny tamal.” 

“Ah, I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, it’s okay. See.” Mexico spread more masa onto Lithuania’s corn husk. “Don’t be afraid to make it bigger. It’ll cook fine.” 

“Okay,” said Lithuania. “Thank you.” 

They worked in silence for a little bit, occasionally Diabla would bark at something outside. 

“Say, can I ask you something?” said Lithuania. 

“Sure.” 

“When I visited Yucatan and saw the Mayan pyramids, there were a number of serpent statues. What are they?” 

“Snake motifs, specifically feathered serpents, were very popular with indigenous people before the Europeans came over,” Mexico explained. 

_“Really?”_ Lithuania’s eyes sparkled. “Before I converted to Catholicism, snakes were prominent in Lithuanian culture as well. I’ve always liked them.” 

“Seriously?” said Mexico. “I thought Europeans hated snakes.” 

“ _Christians_ hated snakes,” said Lithuania, folding another corn husk and beginning to make another tamal. “The Baltic people used to worship them. We held them in very high regard.” 

“I’m neutral towards them. My mother used to worship them. I think. You two would get along.” Mexico shook her head. “I don’t remember her much.” 

“You remember your mother? Who was she?” 

“Azteca.” 

“Like the Aztec Empire?” 

“Yes, that was her.” 

“Where is she now?” 

“Oh, Spain killed her.” 

“O-Oh.” 

He looked at his bowl. “I’m out of meat,” he said suddenly. 

“I am too,” she said, thankful for the change in conversation. “There’s plenty of masa left. We can just make a few naked ones.” 

“How long do these take to cook?” 

“Water’s boiling,” Mexico said, looking at the steam rising from the _tamalero_. “I would say we steam them for about a half-hour per batch. We can start putting some of them in.” 

“How many can the strainer fit?” asked Lithuania. 

“About fifty.” 

“That’s _huge_.” 

“Let’s put them all in, and see how much it really fits.” 

Mexico and Lithuania washed their hands and painstakingly placed all fifty-two tamales inside the steamer. 

“It’s over now.” Mexico put the lid on the tamalero. “Would you like a beer?” 

“Would I ever,” said Lithuania. “What kind do you have?” 

Mexico opened her fridge. “How about a Noche Buena?” 

“I’ve never heard of it.” 

“It’s typically sold around Christmas. It’s a dark beer.” 

“I’ll take one.” 

Mexico pulled one out for him and her. “We can relax on the couch.” 

_“Salud.”_

__

_“Salud.”_

__

They clinked their bottles. “You’re catching onto Spanish,” said Mexico. 

“Just a little bit.” 

Diabla crawled into Lithuania’s lap. “Hey, there,” he said softly. 

“Now _I_ have a question for _you_ ,” said Mexico. “How _did_ you end up being good friends with America? I don’t remember there being a large Lithuanian population in the US.” 

“After World War I and…a few developments with my neighbors, I briefly moved in with him to work. He offered his home to me. His kindness meant so much to me.” 

“Oh.” Mexico’s mouth went dry. “That’s a bit different than my experience.” It made her feel strangely distant from Lithuania. 

Lithuania’s eyes softened. “I…I understand,” he said. 

Mexico gave him a skeptical look. 

“Considering my…history with a large neighbor of mine, I’ve heard rhetoric calling us paranoid whenever we express concern. Us, meaning me, Latvia, and Estonia,” Lithuania said. “They just don’t understand.” 

Mexico knew very little about Lithuanian history. The most she had ever heard about the country was in the 90s. “No, they don’t.” 

The heat from the kitchen filled the room. 

“You’re one of the most sincere Europeans I’ve ever met,” Mexico blurted out. 

“I…I’m what?” 

“That was a stupid thing to say,” she said suddenly. “S-Sorry.” Oh, she was an idiot. 

“I know that they’re not done yet, but I’ve had a wonderful time making the tamales, Maria,” Lithuania said. “I don’t know anything about Mexican culture, but I _love_ learning about it.” 

Mexico’s heart skipped a beat. 

“I think we’re both drunk,” said Mexico. 

“I’m not,” said Lithuania. “Are you?” 

Mexico shook her head. “No. I haven’t even finished the beer.” 

Lithuania stroked Diabla’s back. “Are…Are the tamales done yet?” 

“No…” 

Mexico drank more of the beer. 

“Do you want to check on them?” asked Lithuania. 

“No…” she replied. 

“What do you want to do?”   
  
“Can I kiss you?” 

Lithuania set down his beer bottle and looked pensively at it. 

He turned to her. “Yes.” 

Mexico put a hand on his rough face and kissed him. His lips were smooth and tasted slightly of the beer, but also something else—rye and grass and everything that made Lithuania that Mexico knew so little about. 

They pulled apart. Diabla stepped off Lithuania’s lap with a growl. Bonito grunted and jumped off the couch. 

“I think we offended the dogs,” Lithuania said. His hand was on her arm now. 

“Oh no we didn’t! I think the tamales are done now!” said Mexico, suddenly getting up. “Want to try some?” She held out her hand. 

“I’d love to,” Lithuania said and took it. 


End file.
